This article is part of a special series called “One in four: How access to abortion is shaping America..”

As I write this, I’m waiting for my doctor to call me back and most likely schedule me for another prenatal visit. The 40-mile or so drive through winding, rural roads across state lines to my obstetrician’s office.

Like I have written beforeI know from my own pregnancy history that complications can cause requiring abortion careI need these protections for various reasons and even for this pregnancy that my family and I are happily expecting. That’s why it’s so risky to live in a state where abortion is severely restricted.

I tried writing this article several times. I asked my editor for multiple extensions, somehow convincing myself that I would feel better in a few hours, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after that. I had to stop, then start, then stop again; I’ve had to throw up, call my doctor, lie down, take another pill, or just breathe through a series of painful contractions.

When asked if I wanted to detail what it was like. traveling out of state for routine prenatal careI said yes immediately – perhaps naively. I lend my voice to the sea of ​​women stepping forward to share how Abortion bans after Karaca it affected their pregnancies, their families, and their lives, and it did.

But the realities of having a high-risk pregnancy as a working mother of two in South Dakota, where abortion is almost completely banned Pushed Obstetricians out of state and I left these afraid to treat his patientsIt made even the most mundane tasks—and writing, which is certainly my livelihood—difficult. Some days this was impossible.

When every too-early contraction, every nauseating bathroom visit, every infection can require hours of commutes and Tetris-like childcare maneuvers, your life becomes a series of unwinnable calculations. Even though common, slightly frustrating prenatal appointments can be exhausting, you can’t help but mentally tally the mileage and feel defeated in advance. When even ultrasounds that provide answers and relief become time-consuming and tiring, you even begin to measure your own mental, emotional, and physical health.

He made these calculations before moving to South Dakota in July, when the Supreme Court ruled in Roe v. I did it long after the state banned abortion, right after it overturned the Wade case with no exceptions for rape or incest. I knew that moving to the rural town of Madison to be closer to my grandfather, who had Alzheimer’s disease and later broke both his hip and arm, requiring multiple surgeries, meant that, as a pregnant woman, I would be at the mercy of a woman. Indefinite abortion ban exception that has proven difficult and dangerous to implement.

My husband and I calculated the miles between me and the nearest obstetrician in Minnesota, where access to abortion is protected. If necessary, can I go to Pipestone Medical Center, an hour away from our home, during my contractions, vomiting, and maybe even bleeding? But even though I knew my husband would be away from work for four weeks at a time, the journey seemed possible when I was faced with the alternative: a doctor refusing to treat me until I was dead “enough” and no one was there. advocate on my behalf.

Of course, I did not take into account all the unforeseen calculations that can accompany pregnancy. Getting pregnant with another human being is, by definition, a major medical event filled with unforeseen complications and challenges, even if you’re a relatively healthy 37-year-old.

I never considered the possibility that I would be standing in my kitchen one evening and the next moment I would almost fall to the floor. I’ve been feeling “bad” all day – my stomach constantly clenching from what I’ve been scrubbing at, while I’m having Braxton Hicks contractions, my head hurts, and my throat tightens to prevent another wave of nausea from sending me to the nearest bathroom. After finally getting my two sons, ages 10 and 5, to bed at a semi-decent school night time, I was so dizzy I couldn’t focus anymore. I started to faint.

At 9 p.m., I figured out how I could get myself to the hospital a state away if I could barely stand. I made a mental note of who I could call, who could come watch my sons, and for how long. What if a few small sips of soup + a bottle of water + a detailed description of my contractions = a few more hours at home? Can I go to the hospital tomorrow? Can I bring my computer and work on this manuscript through hours of stress tests, blood draws, urine samples, and an uncomfortable vaginal exam, and can they promise that I’ll be finished in time to pick up my sons from school?

I’ve done many of the same calculations ever since I had to take or endure another prenatal stress test to determine what was causing my intense contractions. I’m making these calculations today, trying to finish a description of how inadequate I think it is to get pregnant in a country where abortion is illegal, while waiting for my doctor to call me to help with my premature labor contractions. , nausea and vomiting are under control.

I will decide once again who will pick up my sons – thank goodness, because he is at home, my husband – and I will decide once again whether I need to leave work tomorrow. Hopefully all of this will be alleviated from my home, saving me a tank full of gas and a lonely drive to a state I don’t call home.

Even when things are “normal” and I feel like I have the physical capacity to go visit my grandparents in the hospital, take care of my cousin’s kids, or go on a much-needed family trip when my husband is home, I play it worst. Case scenario in my head, I plan possible routes, not to the nearest hospital, but to the nearest hospital in the nearest state where abortion is legal. If I’m in western South Dakota, I might go to Wyoming. If I’m closer to the center of the state, it’s best to head back to Minnesota. And if I have to go to a hospital in South Dakota, who can I call, who will fight for my right to live? Let me return to my two sons; to be seen as a person, not as a person “earthen pot” or a glorified “host”?

There’s another reason why I insist on writing my story, even from the hospital bed or examination room. It raises eyebrows and doubts from others, including members of my own family, as to why all this is necessary.

When my grandmother said to me, “Well, if you think that’s what you’re supposed to do,” after I explained how South Dakota’s abortion ban was harming pregnant women and why I should go elsewhere for prenatal care, I know I have to keep at it. I speak despite a new wave of nausea.

When my aunt and uncle, who live in Minnesota, regurgitate the outright lie that babies are “aborted after birth” or view me as a hysterical liberal acting out of fear rather than the realities of a post-Roe America, I wonder if it would be wise to take my computer with me to the hospital for another prenatal visit. I know it will happen.

When women should be bleeding in hospital parking lot or they mourn the loss of their fertility Because of the harm that abortion bans cause to be taken seriously, even if I tell myself my situation isn’t “that bad,” I know it’s still worth telling.

Because for every story like mine, there are thousands of stories that are never heard; swamped by a series of lose-lose decisions and buried by piles of bills, late-night hospital stays, school pick-ups, second jobs, and devastating medical emergencies that don’t come at once but after a lifetime of recovery.

I can document what this was like for me because my pregnancy was high risk but not catastrophically complicated. I am a privileged woman who has access to the prenatal and birth care I need and deserve, administered by doctors who do not fear criminal prosecution simply for upholding the Hippocratic oath. That’s why I plan to continue writing about this topic.